The Mandalorian
by Random Name Inserted Here
Summary: Along the outskirts of the galaxy plots a forgotten Sith of the new age with her protege, a man clad in Mandalorian armor. Both seek revenge, but each have a different debtor to pay.
1. Chapter 1

You could feel the heat of the orange-white star sear right through the heavy metal roofs as it blared at the hangar doors mercilessly. It was always a clear blue-white day outside, but it was always cloudy with oily smog that swam down to your shoulders under the artificial atmosphere of the ironclad colony that veined the desert planet. Taizok was not a hospitable planet, even for a Zokian. Historically, it was a planet so plagued with harsh conditions that it was where bandits would hide their ships from Republican patrols or local patrolmen too greedy to be bribed and still make a profit. It was a planet that became a city from the labor of bandit slaves, ruled under a bandit king, and even centuries to this day is still a den of bandits.

For those that still kept the tradition alive, there were many places you could go, but only one place if you weren't a Zokian and wanted a place that wasn't so infernally hot, and that was "The Pit."

"The Pit" was just that; two miles below the surface and a mile and a half below the normal Taizokian settlements; a natural sinkhole in the surface that was so deep that it was cool enough for even people that could not live in that heat. Someone took advantage of it and it became a tavern for people who wanted to hide away, or for those who want to hire someone hidden away. "The Pit" was one of the better places to hire a bounty hunter because of that.

Around the lake-shaped bar of "The Pit," it was an atmosphere flooded with loud neon and quiet voices and polite trails of smoke, where patrons of different races but equally bad reputations sat around. Genok sat, clenching/fisting the cheap blue sandglass mug of brew. His four-fingered palm grasped the half-full mug and he mused at it with a philosopher's stare before pushing it back to his grotesque lips and gulped the dregs down. The rest that ran against his lips was wiped into the sleeve of his meaty left arm and part of the large knife holster that hung on him like jewelry. He then tapped the scuffy metal plate on his chest and erupted a short belch before he squeezed the mug as though it was a fruit. It jiggled for a bit, but like all the others, cracked and crinkled into teeth-like shards that attempted to bite into the hard leather of Genok's squeezing fist, but only crushed themselves instead, until Genok gave another satisfied smile, like before with a hand clenched full of blue sand. It was the fifth one this day.

His ear twitched at a sound of disorder. The sound of conversation was suppressed as though an Empire patrol was coming here. Empire soldiers never came to Taizok, however, so Genok fixed his yellow-gold eyes and saw a figure in armor step in. He knew the armor easily by its plated design, the faded dark green tone to it, the vizor-shade of the helmet. Mandalorian armor was not something anyone saw any day, and even if someone saw it, they knew it belonged to only one person.

"The nerve," Genok's words grumbled under, preparing. Bounty hunter Boba Fett was a well-known name in the world of his trade and even outside of it; it was enough for him to be used as a slave of the Empire. Genok didn't believe in the Rebellion, in fact no one here believed in the Rebellion, but no one wanted to be an Empire lackey either. Not without the right price, but only the dog of the Empire himself, Boba Fett, could get that sort of luck and that only made him even more hated for it.

The bounty hunter took his quiet steps off the shaft and stepped up to the bar, sitting down. An insult slapped him in the face: the hunter did not even carry his famed jetpack with him, but carried a simple cloth pack instead, and wore a pulled-back cloak as though he was someone important. It was as though he had nothing to fear about being here, even though Genok still remembered the time Fett stole one of his prized bounties years back, and there was a blaster by his belt with a loose trigger that Genok's thick hand reflexively gripped.

"Fett." Genok barked. "Dog of the empire."

The bounty hunter did not respond. It was as though he did not even listen, or want to listen. Genok could not hear the crowd become quiet, but the feeling in the air was mutual.

"Fett!" Genok stood up, his mammoth figure normally twice that of Fett, now three times as high as he stood up and the bounty hunter sat down. Now he turned to look at him, look up at him through the featureless visor of his helmet. You could not read whether he looked at him with fear, anger, or apathy, but it all looked apathetic through that helmet, and that only made Genok's hand pull out the blaster. As he looked over the bounty hunter, his armor looked even more insulting; he only had a blaster by his side and what looked like a broken lightsaber.

The bounty hunter stood, and Genok pointed the weapon "Get out."

"Where is Fett?" The bounty hunter replied. In Corelleon, at that. The blaster arm went limp.

"Where is Fett?" The words echoed through Genok's mouth, in Corelleon and then in the Zokian tongue he was used to. It sounded so strange that it made him think twice for a moment. The hunter then asked again, in that Corelleon tongue:

"Where is Fett!"

It was not Boba Fett.

but Genok did not like the stranger's tone.

The blaster hand tightened and aimed to the forehead of the vizored helmet. That armor was strong, but a blast straight on would easily strike him hard enough to make him flinch, making it easy for two or three shots. Not even the armor could stop that, let alone an impersonator of the notorious bounty hunter.

The figure did not flinch, did not move in that armor except to reach with his arm. If he reached for the blaster, the trigger would have been pulled, but it was for the lightsaber, the broken device that could not even be held the way you would expect a storybook Jedi to; the pathetic thing was limp at the end so had to be held in place with two fingers over it. Genok smiled as the Fett-imposter poked it against the metal chestplate he wore, a piece that he knew could take a blaster rifle shot at point blank.

"It will take more than a broken lightsaber to kill me," Genok sneered back in Corelleon.

As his finger squeezed the trigger, Genok's last sensation was of a searing heat that stabbed straight through his metal chest.

He switched off the handle and the red spurt of light slid away. The noise in "The Pit" no longer held words, but the sound of chatter: the chattered clicks of blasters, crossbows, throwing knives, clenched teeth. The helmet did not move, but it could see enough. The lightrapier seared on again, and the corpse was pulled up as a shield: but he had not touched the corpse.

The lightrapier was a clever device, one that required clever fingers; ones that could grab a venom spitter's neck and make sure that it would not twist and snap back at the culprit that held it. The neck of the rapier, the short stub of metal that forced the red blade out between his fingers, danced in fan-form waves with the influence of those quick fingers. It snapped back blaster fire, bit back thrown blades, and shattered arrowheads. Whatever the rapier did not catch was from the other side of the Mandalorian, but it was his new friend that mistook his lightrapier for a lightsaber that was the shield, held by the invisible pull of the Force that could be felt through that fist. The body jiggled and revolted against the shots, but it did not do anything more but follow the Mandalorian who did not even stare directly at the body, or the lightrapier's humming whip, but ahead. An elevator was behind him, and he stepped back quietly against the raging anger of blaring fire.

An elbow bashed back the button to go up. The large figure he pulled in front of him. A spatter of green blood splattered a mess against the edge of his helmet, too close. A bounty hunter clad in leather, a bandolier of thermal detonators, and a large spear charged. The Mandelorian's fist released and forced a motion up, and his friend's already riddled body now adorned the sharp head of the spear.

The newly free hand now went for the blaster. Two bounty hunters lost their shooting arm in a twitch of a moment before the shaft door opened. That was when the Mandalorian noticed the thrown body dropping with the spear and crumpling on itself when the hunter pounced for him but quickly jumped back at the approach of the rapier's edge. The hunter was quick, most likely someone used to catching quicker prey from the way it dodged the red edge of the rapier's dance. It was a shame that his comrades' ricocheted fire could not be as predictable for the creature and the hunter flinched back enough to let the blaster give it four shots..

He took three more quiet steps back as the open door began to close. The one that lunged for him began to reach for a thermal detonator, but a shot to the hand quickly stopped that before the door was safely shut.

The rapier's blade was turned off and replaced like the blaster. There was no need for it in the Zokian city. Even if they caught up with him, the blaster fire only made them targets in Taizok. The only law foreigners were given in Taizok was the promise of slavery if a weapon was fired in the city, and Zokian slavers were fiercer than the outside atmosphere, let alone the Zokians that would make a few extra credit selling their legal livestock.

Do you have the report?

The Mandalorian would have spat if he could. His helmet stared into the shaft door.

"Master, I was – waylaid." Distaste touched his voice halfway in-between his words. He hated hesitation as much as failure.

Your incompetence is worse than your ability to lie. Do you or do you not understand the importance of being here?

"I understand Master." Submission was in his voice.

Then we will leave now and you will save your anger for something more useful than a bounty hunter.

The elevator stopped and the shaft opened. The cool air from "The Pit," or what was left of it, was now replaced with the greasy heat of the Zokian city, but it did not effect the Mandalorian's silent steps as he continued to move forward, continued to look ahead, continued to think of Fett, and continued to plot.

Poddo's Droid Shop was one of several on Taizok but the only one run by a droid itself, which might have been illegal if it was not on a planet known for its illegal activities. Poddo's model came with the pride of being an independent prototype during the early part of the Trade Wars and one of the few droids that did not shut off during the end of the Clone Wars. It did not change anything about its skill in combat, though; its double-bladed spark spear still rested within easy reach of the droid even though it was obvious it also added a few more piecemeal features into its frame to make communication even easier.

The Mandalorian stepped into the alcove of the shop, the visor glanced around at the typical protocol droids, repair bots, navigators. Then the helmet turned to even see two sphere of what must have been very old and very illegal battle droids, but it was also obvious they were not for sale when he could see the translucent glow of their shielding betray their otherwise dead appearance. They were on and ready to fire at any would-be thief or robber. The Trade Federation that made them was gone, but their combat droids were still fearsome to anyone that dared to think less of them. The Droid shop was relatively free of would-be thieves or anyone else; the reputation of those droids were obviously known on this planet.

"Welcome to Poddo's." The mechanical accent of the droid clung to a voice that was slow and patient. "What may I help you with?"

The Mandalorian did not look around, but stared back at the unblinking red stare of the droid's gaze. "A house cleaner."

The droid could show no emotion, but the glinted tap of its piecemeal fingers against its metal thigh was a sign of impatience "Don't insult my patience, sir." It said the last part with a suggestion of tired mockery. Zokian home cleaning was a sacred ceremony for what few holidays there were on this planet.

"Don't you have something? Something in a dark corner?"

Paddo did not say anything, but stared back with unblinking red-lamp eyes. It did not tap its fingers anymore.

"I suppose you think I would browse for you? I did not program myself for archiving, foreigner." The droid kept its open palm out.

The Mandalorian reached to the purse by his belt, and removed a few hard credit coins, jingling them in his hand to suggest how much there was before he dropped them into the droid's open hand. Poddo quickly closed its hand and then stowed it into a storage box on its back with calculated efficiency.

"I believe some checking may be possible. You will follow me. Touch anything if you want to lose your hand." Saying this, the droid's legs went to life, whining and whirring to an automated door in the back, but not before turning to one of the combat droids to say, "Operation 32." The combat droids uncoiled, revealing spider legs suspending a range of six laser cannons ready to fire. The droids did not speak, but anything with that much firepower did not require it.

The room behind the droid shop was as full of cluttered parts as it was droids. The sounds of welders and loose electricity was a rempant noise. There were multipurpose droids and mechanics, some not even droids, worked away. The helmet turned to notice some of their experiments and noticed one was another combat droid, while the other was some sort of mechanism still attached to a large turret that was probably as illegal as that combat droid. Poddo continued to walk down and the Mandalorian followed the droid until they reached another door.

What was inside must have been Poddo's personal quarters. It was small and efficient, something that may have been confused for a large closet with better lighting, a charging plant, a desk with a few data files lying around it, and two cushioned chairs by each side of that desk, both to make the person who sat in it feel more comfortable, and to make them feel more comfortable by not having to stare up at the droid. The Mandalorian did not wait to be told to sit down. Poddo went behind the desk and stood straight up as he stared back into the blank features of the Mandalorian's helmet.

"You will tell me what you want with information on the Empire." The droid's mechanical tone could not hide the curiosity, perhaps to measure how useful the information was, or perhaps to see if it was worth more to sell this person out. It was not undone, especially foreigners in that sort of armor.

The Mandalorian did not even flinch in reaction. Poddo did not show care, he did not need to, did not bother programming himself to; instead, he watched the only thing of the Mandalorian's that did move; his hands. They reached to his belt. In reaction, the ceiling turrets whistled high into life and stared their weapons straight for the sitting figure. But the man did not pull out a weapon, or a thermal detonator, but a small black cube that was carefully placed on the top of the desk.

Poddo knew what it was, and bowed in expectation. A blue image quickly shone into the reality bearing the corpulent body of a Gargon. Its two-mouthed face and single eye stared placidly at the bowed figure as its hair was left out back in a long array of tentacles that ended with eyes. It wore robes that appeared dark in the appearance of the blue-schemed image, but both the droid and the Mandalorian knew it was the true jet black of a Sith Master.

"Rise," the voice audibly commanded in stereo. The droid stood as though it was ready for combat.

"Who do you serve?" The harsh electronic fuzz that interfered with the voice did little to hide its ferocity.

"I live to serve you, Darth Gelna." Fear might have been in those words, or blind obedience towards its creator.

"Then you will tell me what you know about what happened to Sidius' protégé."

"He reportedly escaped safely from the Death Star, sir."

The one large eye closed into a tight squint, the vision expressed hard smirks in its lips, but not ones of total disgust. "Jedi are worthless after all, apparently."

"The last known reports have said that he is currently on the flagship Executer returning to Coruscant."

"Sidius' will not be pleased, thankfully."

"So we will go to Coruscant?" The Mandalorian's voice was ready, overeager. There was nothing here, after all, other than heat and worthless bounty hunters.

"Fool, you would never survive a direct encounter with Sidius… yet." The correction made was not a hopeful one. "I will want you to destroy his 'valuable' apprentice first."

"Darth Gelna, my master, if I may speak, I-"

"-you will not." The single eye did not stare at the droid, nor did it seem to care for the caution in its electronic plea. "Darth Vader is nothing more than a weak little boy who never understood the true power of the Sith, let alone his tame master."

"Where will they move then?"

The holographic figure of Darth Gelna remained still, a flickering statue of contemplative blue sheen. Finally, it remarked.

"Droid, how many other models are there?" The image meant other Trade Federation models.

"Forty-three, my lord. Two bounty hunters, twelve sentries, and the rest service models."

"How many are still in the service of the Empire?"

"Twenty-three, my lord."

The right lip did not remark, but it was the one to the left that could not conceal the fade of a smile against its corner.

"I see. Then you will tell me what you find. Until then, feel free to peruse my worthless apprentice."

The Mandalorian tilted his face away as though he did not hear it as he lounged against the chair. The droid began to show reverence to the slacking man, but then the Sith raised a three-fingered hand up quickly to correct him.

"You will not show him reverence. He has no potential except to aggravate Sidius. Even a wide-eyed jedi pup would cleave him in two before-"

The sheening red hum of the lightrapier revealed itself in the Mandalorian's hand. In reaction, Poddo mechanized instinct drew the shockspear. Overhead, turrets began to bloom cannons. The Mandalorian hesitated.

"-he would have a chance to draw that rapier."

The Sith did not even make an inflection in mid-sentence.

The Mandalorian's helmet stared, continued to stare at the image that did not bother to look back at him with any of its several hair-like eyes as he then added another bitter spitting motion with the right mouth as it hacked a word.

"Worthless," was that word.

Poddo was silent, but the red featureless lights of its eyes continued to vibrantly stare back at the Mandalorian with an efficient battle stance. The turrets whined angrily with the charge of laser noise. While the right mouth formed into a sneer, the left continued to quietly pocket a half smile, not staring even with its smaller eyes, but knowing.

"You are still worthless."


	2. Chapter 2

The heat of the endlessly bitter sky could even penetrate the armor that the Mandalorian wore, armor that was modified to handle the stress of space. Poddo knew this in the way the man struggled in his gait, as he stood in the torrent of a burning sun's glare that did little to the droid except make it wear a coolant-rig around its vital circuits to make sure it could stand an extra hundred degrees. Poddo stood on a barge littered with old, new, modified, and rigged, targeting droids. Against the side, the image of the Sith Lord continued to watch.

"You look tired, foreigner." It was Poddo's favorite way of calling the Mandalorian. It was the only way it knew to call him through its synthesized voice. "If this were Antilles, a vulture would have pecked through that armor of yours and ate your soft contents by now."

"More." The harsh whisper quietly remarked in stereo, quietly enough for no one else to hear. "He still has not reached his fullest."

The droid replied by pressing a button against a console next to it.

"I wonder how much that armor would sell for after I scoop your body out with a shovel, foreigner."

The Mandalorian's helmet looked up, catching the high and heavy white glare of the sun before recognizing where a number of droids were hiding. His right arm held the rapier's red blade on while his left cradled the blaster pistol that pointed in the air, uncertain.

Then the Mandalorian rolled away. Through the aimless wall of white light, he managed to catch a glimmer of orange blaster fire that left a tiny burn mark in a white sand that shifted the stain away. The blaster aimed and fired at the memory of its location, but there was no sign that it had made its remark.

"Pathetic."

Another shot came and orange light chased towards the coolant-wrapped neck of Poddo but ricocheted against the invisible shielding of the barge. The flashbang followed by the sandy shower of training droid parts left the saved droid quiet.

Against the hot wind, within the strained cooling system of the armor, the person inside, the Mandalorian, began to feel the effects of the training. Sweat began to trickle and flow and then streamed in salty streams down his face like memories and tears, and the first salt-tinged reminder was a name of a past that breathed through his lips.

Rhaeft was more than a name. In his eyes, it was a vision, a sensation, a total comfort. The earliest he could remember was a bright green glaze in the sky of Farg that wrapped over the half-smug confidence of that name staring back down on him. His hands were warm and wet from his own fresh scars and streaks of water from his own body.

"Wrong," was the first thing he always remembered hearing.

The blaster felt so heavy then, in those small young hands that were red, raw, and sensitive. An hour of heavy target practice would have done that to anyone's hands. An hour of target practice while avoiding a shot to the head would have killed weaker men. He had died before. When he first fought against his brother, he stared death in the eye twenty times in one day. Now, it only occurred twice. This was, after all, practice. Painful, searing, tiring, practice.

Every day was practice, and every day had meant to hurt.

If father had been alive then, perhaps this would have never happened. Perhaps that was what he always told himself during those cold nights when he slept outside. When he grew older, he knew that father would have only made him work harder, make them work harder.

Roncasyt was a father he never knew. Rhaeft never spoke of him except to remind him why he wanted to fight. Rhaeft knew of a time when they were a family of high honor, for Roncasyt was one of the greatest Mandalorians of his day. The Mandalorian armor he wore bore proud scars against Jedi and Sith, and even his belt held two lightsabers as trophies. The stories that were told about his battles were the reason why he would be viewed as one of the greatest of Mandalorians, and why he would be reviled.

It was not his brother that told him that, though, but one of the warrior caste that spat at the thought.

He was a great warrior but a terrible man, as many told him. After he had donned the honor that the armor represented, he lost his will as a warrior and no longer followed the warrior's code he once was part of, he spent his public presence always with the smell of one intoxication or another until even his prized trophies could not hang from his belt without being caked with the filth of his lifestyle. He paid no respect to the greater warriors, and during the wars against other planets, he always took slaves as his war prize; young female slaves. His harem was large, his number of children was larger which only made his dishonor that much more great. He was a warrior, and it was his only grace.

There was no sorrow when he was killed in a duel. That his opponent was one of his Corellian slaves made others cry laughter. The only one that seemed to think differently was the older boy of Roncasyt's only wife, Rhaeft. He was also the only one that knew his mother, but he never said anything about her, except that she died giving birth to Roncasyt's second son. No one had anything to say about her, but there were always words of honor spoken over Roncasyt's murderer, the warrior Thorme, but he never remembered what they said, but always remembered what Rhaeft said.

"Wrong."

When he grew used to the weight of the blaster, Rhaeft had already gained status as a warrior. Those few Mandalorians that he had met then told him it was an honor that he was trained by one who had the potential to become something greater. His deaths numbered ten times a day.

"Wrong."

As he grew used to carrying the blaster with one hand, Rhaeft counseled him through holoprojectors, for he was going through his own trials at the time to be worthy of donning the armor that would make him a real member of status. He no longer fought with Rhaeft then, but he never fought alone in the swamps of Farg where the blaster always was hot like the weather as he shot at the flies. In every seventh day, Rhaeft came down to give him rations flavored with staleness and practice his live blaster against the same weakened weapon that his brother always struck him with when he was smaller. The deaths numbered five times.

"Wrong."

His aim was good enough to strike out flies from a distance without a thought when his brother had earned the armor. Along the fens, the rations found more use as bait. His greatest trophy at the time was the head of a slickcoil, a tasty serpent twice his size with knife-sized fangs, a skin that absorbed blaster fire, and a taste for stale rations. He ate well the night he taunted the thing with blaster fire and crushed its skull with a large whip of bogwood. He carried the knife carved from its teeth to show his pride.

Then Rhaeft came down, but it was not Rhaeft that he saw but the Mandalorian armor that was Thorme's. When he pulled the helmet off, he could still see a few bleeding pocks against his face as he grinned towards his brother. Proud war wounds.

"Nice, isn't it?"

He could not think of anything to say at the time. Isolation had stolen the need for speech, and before this his brother had not spoken to him with but little words and now Rhaeft filled in the quiet that normally was drawn in their speeches. Back then he did not know that he was the only Mandalorian on that planet, that no one else would come to such a world except for a brother who had planned to use it as a refuge should his plans have failed. He never knew that was the original plan, but it did not matter since he knew it was a trade between the two of them. While he learned to survive at an early age, his brother survived against the onslaught of a tainted legacy and words that had now been defeated by status.

Those warriors that he spoke to spoke to him and of his past with reverence. They were part of Rhaeft's clan, however, so it was not unexpected. He knew nothing of the Mandalorian War then, for his brother never told him about the conflicts between factions, nor about how his clan was once whole when that same Corellion that murdered his parent was killed in Rhaeft's duel. He did not know enough about the warriors around him, but looking back he would remember that they reminded him of people that he would later look back upon and consider to be opportunists, would-be members of the warrior class that more likely gained their fame through chance than through actual skill. When he was older, he would have slit any of their throats without a thought for their ill-gotten gains, the crudely-gained armor that was meant to express their true talent. Rhaeft neglected to notice such a problem.

"Wrong."

In the heat of a training room that did not reek of swamp heat, floating bugs, or roots that surrounded his footing, he finally beat Rhaeft in a practice fight by catching him with distance and accuracy of a blaster pistol and quick legs that were still adjusting to an unrocky surface. He was ready for his rite of manhood.

"Wrong, foreigner."

Poddo's electronic digit started another set of druids. Before they came from above in tiny cloud patches of four, but now they made shadows in the air that sheared away the sun glare of the desert. The Mandalorian looked up again, and his legs forced back to avoid a head-shot, then twisted and leaped forward to escape a trio of blaster sears. Another shot aimed towards the back of his head. The blast met the fan-form of his back-swung lightrapier. Another sprinkle of electronics tinkled down the air and mixed with the pure sand. The heat inside the suit squeezed hot drops of artery-fast sweat through his salt-crusted face and brought another taste of manhood that fed his lips.

"As expected of my brother," his brother had said, confidently.

He wanted to say something then, but his lungs then were too heavy with air, too busy attempting to find control as his hands clenched shade-cloaked sand; the first shade he ever found in a month, the only shade he could find and it was from the heating frame of Rhaeft's shuttle. Everything within his body suffered with the dead weight of a sore body that made his green-toned arms feel sicklier, but victory made every pushed and pulled breath a glorious one. He looked up instead, but felt his own chest begin to ache, so knelt forward instead, and smiled hard pants into the dirt.

He heard a small metal tang touch the ground as he tried to bring himself back to normal. It was a ration, a precious ration that he would have once fed to coilworms when he had a chance to get food in the endless wet heat of Farg's green sky. Hodras, a planet of desert and little else outside of kilometer-long sandlions that swam below the hot sands. It did not matter though, when he thought of the shuttle that would let him go to a place where no one ever thought of rations as precious commodities. His brother did not say anything afterwards but continued to stare. The month of survival in the cloudless world offered him no mercy save in those few sandlions he managed to kill with a knife-clad hand; the hunter become hunted. Sandlions had a juicy red flesh.

Rhaeft started to walk away, out of his sight. When he looked up, Rhaeft tossed a lightsaber to him. It was the lightsaber he always carried, his other half of the pair of Roncasyt's legacy, the memento he could no longer wear during initiation. The sand already began to feel even cooler against his baked skin , relieved from searing heat and with a returned legacy. The blade was the first new thing he clenched in a long time, wonderfully comfortable in his hand unlike the sore rawness of a jading bone knife handle or the sloppy grip of a messy sandlion jaw.

He remembered opening the ration then, and wolfing down what little moisture was in those tin-lined canisters. The sky felt cooler, the lightsaber went to the worn rim of his belt.

And then he heard the sound that inflated and ruptured the quiet within the air.

For once in the longest time, it rained on that planet. It rained of shrapnel.

A recoiling thud of an invasive blaster knocked his arm, interrupted the flow of the Mandalorian, perhaps even killing him should there have not been that armor. His body crouched into a tumble and his arms crossed, sheathing his weapon with his elbow before pulling the trigger, twice, then a third time to force the sky to shower his body with a bounty of molten metal and wiring.

He did not remember how long the rain lasted, only of what he first saw when his eyes opened again and his ears returned from the noise of countless thundering explosions. Something sharp touched his stomach, and he knew that it was not a piece of the ship's hull only because it came twice. The figure stepped away, clad in the armor of his brother.

But his brother's body lay unclad in the sand, his lightsaber on his body and snapped into two. Something touched his belt, felt there, and then a revolting snicker of electronics flared nearby. His father's other legacy lay on the sand by his eyes, within a finger's touch of his sore hand, twitching but not moving enough, not enough to hold its comfort. The figure then stepped away, but not before looking back for a moment, motioning black hair back to stare a naked black eye straight back into his soul; the man looked like Rhaeft, Rhaeft as a Corellian.

As he stepped away, the not-Rhaeft stepped away in his brother's armor, in his father's legacy, not hearing the call to stop, but instead continued as though he heard nothing. The man continued to step away, out of his sight, until only the sound of metal hummed, and clashed, and then faded at the eruption of heat and noise. And then silence rested within the dry heat and the greasy smell of dying. Eyesight grew poor the more he stared at his brother, the more he stared at its wavering smell and the lake that built between his vision of the dead. There was a breeze somewhere and something blanketed his body with warmth. He was tired.

"Wake up."

Somewhere, there was darkness, but it was not a numb sensation that was death. The voice was foreign, but so was this wet metal scent, so was the chill. His eyes were open, or maybe they were not. He could not remember, but it was enough for that voice.

"Hmph. So you can move after all."

He could move. His hand felt a cold metal floor and then stood up in the metal world. A harsh remark touched his ankle. His fingers felt a plastic orifice there that must have been a scab. There were more than one.

Then light flickered up from a lone long beam of bulb over his head, flashing and flickering in the dead dark steel of a cell. There was a door, and it was shut locked.

"But of course you would. The droids never lie, and I can feel that seething." The voice streamed from a grate, a metal-inflected voice. "That... anger."

The door then slid open. A pair of cold tear-shaped droids stood at attention behind that door, but they did not pay attention to him, did not want to, or perhaps were commanded to. The cell led to a hall that was lit with the same simple lighting.

"You will go right."

He did not have a choice. The droids stood ready, and he could see their chaingun blasters mounted in their arms, but they did not pay attention. He continued to walk. The droids turned with clockwork synchronicity and began to follow him four steps behind as he continued through the chamber. A gaping doorway rested to his right.

"Go through that doorway."

He was in a large chamber, lit with a single bring light that shimmered from above over two more droids that guarded a table. A lightsaber was there, and it did not take long before he realized that it was his, or maybe not. It was a combination of parts, a piecemail collection of two parts; of the two broken lightsabers, now made into one total form and maybe more.

"You are not the most promising of candidates, but I need a pupil. I can detect the emotions you carry. Even though you hide them, I can see there is determination laced with that anger, Mandalorian. Can your kind actually be trained is what I would like to know."

He said nothing in retaliation.

"Good. You understand who is your superior. Answer me: what drives your anger?"

Somewhere above, Rhaeft's body rot into bones. Somewhere that man, that dark-skinned Corellion still wandered with his brother's armor, that stolen legacy. The voice laughed, then ceased with incisive strength.

"Answer me."

"Revenge."

"It may do well for us to work together after all."

The center of the room erupted with a third figure; a shimmering blue image of a figure robed in black with a blue iris staring back towards him through the false shadow of the image.

"I am Darth Gelna, once Sith and founder of the Trade Federation." There was a sort of hidden rage he could hear within the hollow voice. "Grab that weapon before you."

He held the alien weapon and felt its familiar grip. Part of it limped in his hand.

The droids turned to face him, then reached their arms upward towards him. His legs took a quick stride and activated the wagging lightsaber. A red spike of energy flashed and portruded, much shorter than any lightsaber. Chain blaster fire rained towards him, but his legs gave way and he tumbled to the side, avoiding all but a wandering beam that caught his dented shoulder. His legs sprinted forward, his hand taking a quick change of grip to hold the shortened blade with one hand and charged forward and pounced on the metal figure stabbing it with the short edge before turning to face the other fully armed opponent. The weapon left his hand with a wide-arced swing, and the weapon flung forward into the steel neck of the droid. He tried to pull off the arm's blaster, but it was mounted, so reached for the blade and sleekly pulled the weapon out of the fresh metal gape. There was nothing else that could be seen, but he was still in the light.

"Promising."

He ran out of the light and hoped to adjust his eyes. Slowly. The figure did not move, but laughter echoed in smug snickering.

"You will be my apprentice."

The figure turned to face him, he remembered spreading his legs. There was still nothing that could be seen around him yet.

"Accept."

"What if I don't?" Was what he remembered asking.

"You cannot." was what muttered out of that figure. "We both have something that each would use. I will teach you so you will take my revenge. When I am done, you will be a Sith with enough power to have that revenge you desire so much. Choose and you will have power. Refuse, and you will be starved in darkness until your soul breaks. Accept."

There were no doorways, no droids; only the sole light from above and the shimmering blue figure, the Sith that continued to watch him with that glowing monochrome eye.

The weapon he would become familiar with in the years to come was turned off. He accepted, and the room filled with amplified chuckles.

"As my apprentice, the first you must do is disavow your name and your traditions. Traditions were what make the Jedi weak, and made the Sith even weaker, and you are already too weak."

He bowed and accepted. Traditionally, new Sith lost their names to gain new titles. He was offered no name. It did not matter, though; he had no other name worth mentioning, no one to remember him by except for the man that now rot in the shade of a metal corpse.

Darth Gelna was a believer of a new era of the Sith, one that did not follow the rigors of traditions that were steeped in etiquette. No one needed traditions when it interfered with the power of the Dark Side and the emotions that controlled them. Lightsabers were likewise a sign of a dying culture. A culture that traitors like Darth Sidius believed in.

She loathed the man named Darth Sidius, a man he never knew until he would hear that name spoken every day to him as though words would burn his image into his head; the one that killed her before she could prove her power in bringing the New Age. Instead, he became the Sith master and, worse, stole her legacy: the Trade Federation; the supplier of droids that she herself planned to use to gain control of a Jedi-crippled Republic. The apprentice that stole her position to become master of a new age of Sith lords.

The lightrapier was one of the many examples of her own inventions. A concentrated lightsaber with a neck that wagged in order to deflect blasters more easily as a shield. The weapon's blade was shorter but could cleave surprisingly easily and, with the right pressure, could break a lightsaber's flow. It was a combination of what made the old useful, but provided in a way that made it more effective in an age where no one used lightsabers except for fools like Palpatine. Only what was new or could be made new would be kept. This was why he would return to the surface to search the sinking remnants of a ship, and unearth a scorch-dented chest that contained a new suit of armor that was like his own; his lost tradition, or what was left that could be used; his clone set of armor to the thief that killed his brother. He was still weak, but things would change in the years to come, and he knew that when the time was right he would find that man, the one that killed his brother, his clan, his Mandalorian nation: Jango Fett. When he did, he would strike against him as Sith, and, in that fool's dying breath, remove his own helmet and make him remember just who it was he faced before taking the red hot blade of his lightrapier, aim it against his neck and-

-and then the red-hot blade flung in the air and cleaved another ball into two pieces. The blaster aimed, fired twice, ricocheted, and destroyed two more of the targeting machines with reflected fire. The Mandalorian opened his hand and pulled the airborne weapon back into his hand.

The sky was still clear, empty. He could hear Poddo's electronic accent say to Gelna's image.

"There is nothing left for the Foreigner to practice with, my lord."

There was nothing else, not even sweat or memories; only a Mandalorian suit of armor, and a Sith lightsaber, and nothing.


	3. Chapter 3

Whenever he thought of the powers of the Dark Side, he would remember pain; he would remember suffering.

The Mandalorian sat in the darkened metal crate of a room. The lightrapier tossed around lightly in the air, held by his powers by the thought of old photographic sensations of bleeding scars. Only the smaller ones. Darth Gelna did not watch but only existed in the memory cube by his belt like she always did when nothing interested her.

A memory of burning let the rapier's red sheen unfurl from the empty edge of the handle and hum angrily as the weapon danced in the air. Pins continued to hold the weapon midair as he sat and wondered about this Darth Vader.

Vader. He had never seen Vader except in holographic scenes of the few Empire's ceremonies that the common people were allowed to see; a man in black armor with a cape like a robe that could not hide the presence of a well-used lightsaber any better than the monochrome glaze of the videos that he had seen in bars. An empty figure, it seemed, a shell of armor and a weapon, perhaps, just like himself. He would finally meet the man, in a place called Cloud City.

"Master," he remembered when Poddo said it, while he was drinking what little water the Master would allow him. "Darth Vader has decided to make his move."

"Do not call him that," the shimmering figure hissed back. "Tell me his destination."

"It seems he has plans to chase some Rebels in a more neutral area. The droids seemed not able to catch more than that, but they are going to Bespin."

"Excellent. You will give us a craft."

Poddo's mechanical legs kneeled with a loud humming noise before they made a hard tang on the stone floor of his office.

"Master, please let me join you."

"You will stay here."

The droid's blank gaze almost showed an actual sense of zealous sympathy through the neon red of its eyes.

"There are no use for droids here. In time, you will find your use again." It was almost as though the Sith Lord showed sympathy between cold but falsely-spoken words.

"Thank you, my Lord." It remarked through sparks of speaker words, no hesitation apparent in the quickness despite the lack of tone.

Darth Gelna's shimmering form then turned to the Mandalorian and stared at him through the brightness of the flickering hologram eyespot through the black robe. "It is time to show Sidius your strength. You will not fail." The last sentence was not hopeful; it was a threat. "You will not fail because you will learn more about what it means to suffer."

His arm spiked up with memories and needles. A "gift" from his master; an electronic bracelet that constantly spiked with a needlelike sensation that may have once made his paled flesh flare with pain. All it offered the Mandalorian was a reminder of what such a device could have done to a younger soul, and provided a gust of life to the sleeping handle that bounced in levitated air; a mindless dance twirled through a mind of toleration of a braced torture.

With enough pain, one could even move items without so much as a thought. It was the sign of understanding true limits with the Dark Side, another realm of power that some Sith could never reach, let alone the ignorant Jedi.

"Approaching Cloud City." The mechanical voice of a navigation droid's warble grated through harsh speakers. The Mandalorian forced a slit of stinging into his wrist and the handle of his weapon flung itself into a familiar grip against his hand before it returned to his belt.

The Mandalorian's steps barely echoed as they tapped against the metal hum of life in the cargo shuttle. The pilot, an R2 unit salvaged from one of Poddo's many trades, handled the operation of the brick-like space barge. The unit did not pay much attention to him, and the Mandalorian would not have cared either way. Neither did the com operator that recognized the beeps and whistles of the unit. Cloud City, after all, was like all the other worlds the Empire did not care much for, and believed that trade superceded race. At least, as long as the money was good enough.

Through the window was the byzantine spires of the conch bronze civilization graced above the cotton floor that gave the city its name.

"Cleared to land," buzzed the speaker.

The Mandalorian punched his arm, and felt a surge of the Force spike in his vein. Darth Gelna's personage stared through, the hologram resting in an empty chair now made full with her electronic ghost. Her hood was up, but the Mandalorian could feel enough of her emotions to know that there was a smile hidden in the shadow cowl.

"Yes, I can feel him here. Them here. Jedi and Sith, interesting..." Darth Gelna always reminded her the fault of Jedi, how they were worse than the Sith. There was respect in her voice at how they were wise enough to understand the use of counsel, of the usefulness of having more than one apprentice. But they never understood the value of emotions. Controlling emotions only weakened their stock, weakened their powers into miniscule entities. She spoke of their extinction the same way one speaks of the creature that they ate for dinner.

"Face Vader, destroy him. Get distracted here and you will only regret it."

The Mandalorian did not look at her as she said it even as the ship touched into the ground and shook as the supports took the ground. Nothing else would distract the chance for more power. Nothing else could.

The depressing hiss of the cargo lift bathed them and leaked some of that golden light, the Mandalorian turned, made iron gongs into the floor, and then was stopped with a sound of Darth Gelna's voice.

"You will not go in dressed like that."

The Mandalorian reached for the helmet.

"No. A robe." To his side hung a brown drape of greased cloth that hung down heavy. He did not need to smell it, it looked rancid. The robe slipped over his body. There were people he had seen in places like these that looked even worse. Shadows hid the armor that hid himself. His wrist bled with the Force and his Master's holocube went to his hand.

"You will not say anything. I can detect him. He is... occupied with the Jedi. The fool. The Jedi had potential, but he's untrained... even you could best him." The voice spilled with laughter as the Mandalorian stepped into the light, and as his master's voice died away.

The halls of Cloud City were clean, organized, unusually polished over into a pearlish glare that made the scum that walked through there seem all the more filthy. Around the halls marched men in white and black armor with gargoyle helmets: stormtroopers of the Empire. They did not pay attention to a filthy bounty hunter in rags without even a presence of a gun against his body. The voice of his Master wormed in his brain.

Around the corner. Past the three doors, then to the right. A door will open and three men will step out. Underneath, a maintenance shaft. Raise the third grate. Through the third door. Past the double doors. Past the double doors. Go past the double doors. You will go now, speck.

But as the Mandalorian stood at those double doors, he saw before him three stormtroopers flanking behind a man in the drab gray of what must have been the Empire's colors, obviously an officer of sorts. He held a hard metal case that was ajar revealing its contents. None of them seemed to notice the man next to those doors. Neither did the person that the officer was speaking with; the man in Mandalorian armor.

Speck. Move past those double doors.

His hand unconsciously touched the handle of his belt.

You are not ready, speck. A Sith would easily destroy any bounty hunter, but you are still an apprentice. Move past those double doors.

The flickered hum of the lightrapier came to life as it flew in a circular arc towards the bounty hunter.

"FETT!"

The robe swung free, revealing the jet armor that stared back. The bounty hunter's free arm went to face the flung weapon, and a blaster shot caught the deathly red glow and killed its flight.

Imperial troopers went for their rifles upraised, but the Mandalorian's other hand already held his blaster and left them to lie on the ground in a clutter with their official.

"Imposter," Fett's helmet hissed back.

"Murderer!" A pistolwhip to the brace in his wrist and the rapier's flight returned to his hand.

The one called Fett froze for a moment and he knew that the hesitation was the realization of just what he faced.

The blaster missed Fett's chest, missed his legs because of that jetpack that flung him back as he replied with his own firearms. The rapier touched the shots, returned them but also could not predict the jaunt that controlled Fett's flight and his own predictions of being stricken.

He was quick.

Another pistolwhip to the Mandalorian's wrist and he was able to make himself quicker.

Fett was already running, but the bounty hunter knew he would come straight on and fired before peeling a corner. The red light of the rapier caught the stray shots, but they flew off in arcs somewhere else. A storm trooper attempted to interrupt him. The third deflected shot stopped him quick.

A stronger punch into the pain, and the Mandalorian bled a harder sensation into his numbing rapier arm, but it was enough to bring himself quicker.

He is leading you to a trap.

But the Mandalorian would not care. He would numb his body with the shock of death if it meant vengeance. If it meant revenge like it was meant to be.

Another corner. A troop of heavy blaster fire went for his body. The rapier caught almost all. A blast went for his arm. A bang that offered a dent, a wound, more of the Force. He could see Fett soon enough, going to a hangar.

"FETT!"

He will escape.

The doorway led to a large collection of ships, and something that bounced to his feet. The thermal detonator on the ground chirped loudly enough to say that it was primed.

The helmet could not see through the smoke. Above him was the doorway. He faced the roof. There was no way to pick himself up. He forced himself to stand, but he could not.

Pathetic. You have learned nothing.

Revenge lusted his body up. Blaster rifles faced him in a circle of white and black. Soldiers.

"Eliminate target," was the last command they had. But it was still too late. A ship that launched a few seconds ago already shrank into the clear sky, leaving only the trace of its engine's echoed howl to mock the one that lost.


End file.
